


dark twisted fantasies, turn to reality.

by eoghainy



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: Bates Motel drabbles, Dylan Massett - Freeform, F/M, Norma Louise Bates - Freeform, Norman Bates - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8537707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: a collection of drabbles from the popular a&e series, bates motel.





	1. i'm here

**Author's Note:**

> testing out bates muses ! x

“It’s okay,” Dylan says as he shoves Norman’s head underneath the floorboards, the clunking of Sam’s heavy boots making his movements erratic. “I’m here. Just stay down here no matter what happens, okay?”

Norman’s wide azure hues flicker up to Dylan. “What will happen to you?”

A wry smile crosses Dylan’s lips. “Don’t worry,” he promised, “I’m going to protect you. It’s okay, Norman, I’ve got you.” He says, a child of seven years old, gently patting the toddlers mop of dark curls. “He won’t hurt you.”

There was enough time for Dylan to fix the floorboard so that his four year old brother is fully hidden from the awful being that is Sam Bates, but not enough for Dylan himself to get away. Throughout the awful beating that had just become another part of his day, Dylan’s gaze managed to stay away from the floorboard. It was one of the hiding places he had not managed to discover yet; Dylan would prefer to keep it that way. 

* * *

At fifteen years old, Dylan pushes Norman out of the house.

“Dylan—“ Norman protests, but breaks off because of the swelling on his bottom lip. Fresh blood spurts from the split, and Dylan refrains from making a move to clean it off. 

“Go. I’ve got you, Norman; just go.” Dylan’s voice is firm. The skimpy teen is tensed, and he’s pretty sure his left shoulder is dislocated. “I’ve got you. Please. Just go.”

“But I don’t want Sam to hurt you,” Norman pleads, his small hands wrapping around Dylan’s bloodied ones. “He will, Dylan. He will hurt you and I don’t want that.”

“ _Go_!” Dylan yelled, this time viciously ripping himself away from his brother. He could hear Norma wailing behind him, and he could hear Sam’s muffled remarks. Hurt displays itself across his half-brothers face, but he finally listens. At twelve years old, Norman Bates leaves the house, leaving his mother and his half-brother to deal with the horror that is Sam Bates. 

* * *

“Shut up, stop squirming.” Dylan’s arms are strong around his brother. 

At twenty-one, Dylan is refusing to mourn the loss of his step-father, and he’s attempting to stop this vicious seventeen year old from bashing his brains in with a meat tenderizer. His arms are locked strongly around his brother, desperately trying to keep him in place. “I’ve got you, Norman. I’ve got you.”

“Let me go!” Norman growls as he struggles, writhing in his elder brothers arms. Dylan is forced to look at the bruise on his face again, painfully aware of how much he felt like Sam once the damage was done.

“No, I’ve got you,” Dylan says again, this time more firmly. He’s not letting go; not this time. No, Norman needs him, and Norman needs him to _keep_ holding on until he finally slips out of this rage. What the fuck was going on with his brother? What had he left Norma with?

“I’m not leaving this time, Norman. I’m right here.”

* * *

“Hey, hey, wake up.” His fingers slide through Norman’s dark hair, attempting to bring his brother out of his stupor. After the stunt in the kitchen, with him thinking that he was _Norma_ , of all people, and even going as far as to make breakfast? Well, that was eventful. 

But, here he lay, waiting for his exhausted brother to wake back up. Norman had stumbled upstairs after breakfast, collapsed upon his bed, and then passed right out. Worried, Dylan had followed him up the stairs and all the way into the room, and watched as Norman sunk onto the bed. 

Realizing that Norman was asleep, Dylan carefully changed his clothes. Off came the robe, and on came a baggy shirt and a pair of sweats. “It’s okay, Norman. I’ve got you. I'm right here.” 

* * *

“Norman,” 

At twenty-two, blood drips from Dylan’s mouth, and his uncomfortably warm hands moved to touch Norman’s cheek, leaving crimson liquid smeared across his pale skin. “I’ve—I’ve got you, don’t worry.” It was growing harder and harder to speak. Hot liquid clogged his throat as he struggled to swallow it back, able to feel the bile beginning to mix with it.

“Not this time,” Norman’s voice was hoarse. It broke at the end, and he screwed his eyes shut, struggling to remain in control of himself. “She got you, Dylan. _She_ did this to you.”

Though hands were pressing down upon the wound that had opened up a fairly large gash on his stomach, Dylan knew that it was over with. He had lost too much blood already; even if they _could_ do something, then he would be screwed later on. He would not recover this time.  

“Norman,” he slurs again, this time forcing his voice to remain even. “I’ve got you.”

It take a lot of effort, but he’s able to haul himself up to where he’s sitting. In one trembling motion, he presses their foreheads together. It was a sensual motion, one that Dylan knew he wouldn’t be repeating. Norman needed the comfort and reassurance that Dylan was going to provide. His body fights for breath that he doesn’t have, and his mind struggles to remain clear.

“I’ve—…”

At twenty-two, Dylan Massett is killed by his eighteen year old brother, Norman Bates.


	2. daddy issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another test drabble !

“Stop, hey! Stop!” 

Fingers grace Dylan’s arm, and the Massett turns; upper lip curling as he spies whomever had grabbed him. Faint recognition brims within cyan hues as they draw across the features of the middle-aged man whom had reached out for him to begin with. His jaw thus becomes clenched, all too painfully aware that he didn’t know whom this man was.

“Are you Dylan Massett?”

The man sounded winded, and he stared at Dylan almost as if he knew him. No part of him could understand how this man just came out at him out of the blue, speaking as if he had recognized him. Confusion outweighs his annoyance, albeit, as he watches a mixture of emotions flicker across this mans face.

“Yeah,” he said slowly his gaze flicking up and down over the mans attire. He was grubby, much like Dylan was often after a long day. _We sorta look alike_ , the thought passed through his head and he paused, words rolling off of his tongue. “Who is asking?”

“God, you’ve gotten big.” The man pulled him into a two-armed hug, and Dylan stiffened immediately. “Your mother hasn’t been keeping up on keeping me informed,” the man commented, and something dawned within Dylan.

“You’re John,” Dylan stated bluntly. Though excitement made him feel giddy, he knew that this visit was useless. John wasn’t his real father; John was just someone whom Norma dubbed as his father. Someone she used to escape from Caleb, and her awful homelife. John wasn’t his father. He was never going to be his father. There was _no point_ to this visit.

“Yeah, Dylan, I’m John.” The man let go of him, and he held his hand out to Dylan as an offering. “It’s been too long since I saw you, kiddo.”

Dylan only gave a noncommittal grunt. 

“You okay, kiddo?” John’s eyes narrowed, and Dylan couldn’t help the way his body tensed. Things would be so much _better_ if John was his father. Couldn’t it be that Norma made a mistake? That he had been the one whom fathered him, and not Caleb? Thinking about that was useless; there was no way in hell that John was his father. Not after the fight he and Norma had had in the kitchen, and the way it had all come out. 

“You weren’t there for me, growing up You weren’t a father to me, so, I don’t want to _hear_ anything about this. Whatever you’re doing here, you need to leave. Before you either upset Norma, or you end up making false promises towards me.” Brushing his ‘ _father_ ’ off, Dylan turned, tensing once John grabbed his shoulder again. 

“Please, Dylan, don’t go.” John’s voice was quiet.

“Why should I stay?” Turning, Dylan faced John. It was better to let his father think that he wasn’t interested in reconnecting with him rather than let John know the truth of what the circumstances of his birth were. “Why should I give you another shot when you left, and never came to see me? When you _never_ came to be my father?” 

John’s gaze was steely and steady as he stared at Dylan. “After … After your mother had her affair with Sam,” John began, hesitantly speaking, “she made it quite clear that she didn’t want too much to do with me. She didn’t want me around you, and she didn’t want me to be involved in your life, especially when Sam was around. She told me that you didn’t want to see me, either; always excuses, excuses, excuses. And then Norman was born, and she stopped keeping contact with me, and I … I thought that it would be far better if I just stayed away, much like I thought that she had wanted. But I missed out on so much of your life, Dylan. _Too_ much of your life. I never got yo see you grow into the amazing man you’ve become, nor did I get to see how you flourished into an adult. I should have been there for you.”

Emotion choked Dylan. He shouldn’t be standing here with John, especially with the way John _still_ thought he was Dylan’s father. The only logical thing to do was to keep brushing him off; to keep letting him know that he wasn’t welcome in Dylan’s life any longer. 

Cyan hues become narrowed as the Massett slowly shook his head. “No, John, you had your chance. You didn’t have to leave me with Sam, with the way he was so damn abusive. You didn’t have to _leave me with him_. But you did. You weren’t a father, just like Norma wasn’t a mother. So stop trying to act like one, John. Stop making an effort.”

It wasn’t fair of Dylan to lead John on, especially when he knew the truth. John deserved to lead his own life, with no regret over whom he had left his son with and how he had treated his son. 

“Just forget about it all, John. Forget about all of it.”


	3. failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this originally was a roleplaying drabble, but because this site is picky w/ fonts, i had to change it. 
> 
> but ! 
> 
> i love dylan.

He couldn’t breathe. 

Hyperventilating had become something he was accustomed to these days; the inability to breathe nor speak. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and he felt as if he were choking on air. Lips trembled as hands tore through his lengthy hair, desperate gasping ripping from his mouth. 

One, two, three ...  
One, two, three ...

Grief stricken eyes stared down at crimson hands, tracing where the red stopped, and the white pallor of his skin began. Copper clogged his nostrils so he breathed through his mouth, battling the urge to retch. He failed. He failed. He _failed_. Ethan's blood covered his chest, his hands, his legs—he could taste it in his mouth. Even though he was surrounded by a full hospital staff, incoherently speaking about how they needed to get Ethan into surgery, he had never felt more _alone_. 

Saliva builds up and he swallows, sniffling and still fighting the need to vomit. Trembling hands touch his forehead, leaving a brush of crimson on his dirtied skin, and then push through his hair; furthering the apparent disheveled look. Dylan still can’t breathe. He can’t draw clean air into his lungs; he feels like he’s _suffocating_  and he has to get out. He has to leave. He can’t stay; he can’t face a doctor as they offer reassurance; as they explain that the bullet stole too much of Ethan's blood. 

At least _half_  of it had to be on Dylan. 

What a man he was. He couldn’t save the one person who meant something to him in this damn town; he had failed _Ethan_ , _Gil_ — _himself_. Words still refused to come; dying upon a numb tongue. Breathing was still hard; he couldn’t bear to face Gil with this news. 

He couldn’t even _bear_ to face himself, or wash Ethan’s blood off of his hands.


End file.
